


What You Need

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Masturbation, PWP, Season Five Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The task at hand is a taxing one. A release is needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> A random bit of smut written after reading speculation about Sansa returning to Winterfell in Season Five.

“And do you think you are prepared?” He asked with preamble, his knife slicing through his fruit, the juice coating his rings. That was what Sansa focused on, most of all—his rings, slick with excess. Surely that would irritate him, as everything outside his constructions did.

So intent was her focus that she did not consider his words until he returned his knife to the table with a clang, forcing her back to him.

She met his eyes, stared into the hard green and grey that he sometimes succeeded at softening. He stared back, his hands busy at cleaning his fingers.

They had come too far for her to back out now. Winterfell was within a week’s journey, the camp around them as tightly wound as a coil. Littlefinger held court in a tent far too opulent for the task at hand, a man who had the appearance of an ensured victory.

Sansa knew better, of course. Knew from the twitch of his mouth and the clip of his words that he was nervous, that things had the potential to go very wrong indeed. He hid it all and she followed suit, until her lips ached with her smiles.

“I think so, my Lord.” She threaded her hands together and gripped tight. She had refused his food, as the very idea of eating made her stomach turn. She knew anything she managed to get down would be retched up soon enough. If it was alone in her tent that would be fine—expected even—but nothing must be allowed to seep outside.

Petyr’s eyes flickered away from her, glancing down at the shine of his knife, his fingers running along the dull edge. “ _Thinking_  will not do, Alayne. You must  _know_.” His voice had a slight tremble to it, which gave her pause. Never had she heard such a hitch of fear in Petry’s voice. She had heard it often enough in Littlefinger’s, most recently when he told them all what that singer had done to his lady wife, but never Petyr’s.

She hated it.

“Should I get some sleep, my Lord?”

“Petyr,” he said, almost as a reflex. And then he looked away again, his eyes focused on nothing, as if he was deciding something. She could practically hear his heartbeat even at this distance. All around them the camp was as silent as  could be, the fires dying down, the new winter winds howling. It was late, more morning than night, and as far as she could tell they were the only ones not abed.

“Come here, Alayne.” He said, his voice harsh, the tone entirely different. It gripped her nonetheless, coiled about her, pulled her forward but not up. She sat, poised in her chair, fingers gripping the polished wood, her throat tight.

It was different the way he spoke to her now. It was not as he had spoken minutes before. It was not even the voice he had when he asked for kisses, when he took one at the Eyrie, when he bound her even tighter to him with another shared murder.

It was low, it was enticing, it was demanding.

For a split second she thought she might rise and leave the tent. That would be the best course of action, to leave before he ensnared her fully. His claws had already dug deep into her, time and time again, and it would be best if she left before she added to that number.

The idea of leaving abandoned her in a second, when he looked at her with Petyr’s eyes. There was  _fear_  there. Fear mixed with something else, something darker that rested more in the set of his mouth. Sansa pushed forward and crossed to him.

He ensnared her quickly, ringed hand coiling around her wrist, gripping and pulling until she was sure there would be bruises ( _she would be bruised soon enough_ , she shuddered to think, memories of a torment escaped drifting into her mind) and pulled her into his lap. She settled, her skirts hiked, and her body pressed against his. A mocking tableau of paternal affection.

“Revenge should worry you, sweetling,” he said. One hand curled against her cheek, ghosting against her hair like he did at the Tourney of the Hand a lifetime ago. “But it’s best to be composed. And that’s why it’s good to have a release.” 

His muth found hers then. It wasn’t at all like his earlier kisses—there was a bite to this one, his lips pulling at the soft flesh, his body pressed painfully against hers. She was taken aback at first and then she fought back, her instincts kicking in, biting against his lips, pressing him into his chair, tasting his blood.

He laughed into her bloody mouth, bitter. “Perhaps you are suited for his bed?”

She chose not to answer, taking out her fury on him, clawing at his fine clothes until she was certain her nails would rip, biting at his skin and relishing his cries of pain. All the while grinding against him, all the while choosing to ignore his hand up her skirts.

Only when he pressed forward could she ignore it no longer. She reared up when his hand pushed aside her smallclothes, cried out when he brushed her curls. 

He silenced her by pulling her back to him, one arm locked about her waist, the other teasing her until she was as wet as a whore. “You  _need_  this,” he hissed in her ear, his skilled fingers coaxing the most shameful sounds from her throat. Sansa buried her face in his neck, her whole body tense, her mind focused on the pain and the pleasure and the shame, all other thoughts roughly pushed aside.

Everything had a sudden physicality. She moved against him with instinct, cried out when he penetrated her with his fingers, felt her heart skip when she felt the hardness pressed between them and knew that he needed this as well.

She drew herself up enough to see his face, to take in his half-closed eyes and firmly set mouth. She was a mess against him, the space between her legs slick, her whole being flushed and ruined and aching for a release she would never speak of, and she thought of nothing more than meeting him blow for blow.

Her fingers were quick, pulling at his laces until there was nothing left to restrain him, until she could reach in and wrap an inexperienced hand around him and feel how utterly strange it was, how exhilarating.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, his eyes snapping open. Far from wavering in the face of his surprise Sansa relished it. She was being taken and here she was, shocking him like this; she was being given release and here she was, granting it. Her fingers danced around the slick head for a moment before she gripped him, her hand moving as he thrust into her with wanton need.

“Is that what you want, hmm?” Petyr’s mouth lifted into a mocking smile, relishing a victory that Sansa knew he had imagined for quite some time. She wondered, briefly, how often he had gripped himself as she did now while picturing a scene like this.

She tried to speak but nothing but a moan left her lips. He seemed to swell with pride, his fingers rough now, his hips moving to meet her hand, coaxing her along, letting her know what he liked.

And just as quickly as it started, it was over. Her climax was a messy thing, her back arching and her body spasming, her cries silenced by Petyr’s free hand over her mouth. He allowed her to relish it for a moment before closing his slick hand over hers and working over his cock until he came with a shudder of his own, his seed spilling over their fingers, coating his rings. 

They remained there for quite a while, entwined, utterly compromised. 


End file.
